


Scheherazade

by Kate Andrews (k8andrewz)



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Daddy Kink, Forced Intoxication, Forced Masturbation, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Mind Games, Non-Consensual Bondage, Post-Episode: s07e01 The Day Will Come When You Won't Be, Rape/Non-con Elements, Storytelling, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Threats of Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-28
Updated: 2016-10-28
Packaged: 2018-08-27 10:48:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8398708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/k8andrewz/pseuds/Kate%20Andrews
Summary: It's all a matter of degree.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Set directly after the Season 7 premiere. Note: This Negan is based on my extrapolation from show canon to date, not on comics canon. Most major warnings covered in tags, but expect less than PC language from Negan. If there are warnings you think should be added, feel free to suggest in comments. Finally, I banged this out in a day or so after watching the premiere, so it's not my most polished story, but it's an angle that caught my interest, and I thought it might catch some of yours too. I wanted to get it out there a) before the next episode Josses it and b) before it ends up moldering on my hard drive with my dozens other half done stories, so I'm putting it out without extensive editing/beta, therefore if you catch any mistakes feel free to give me a heads up in comments.

They take him into the building and tell him to strip. Then they forcibly do so, shove him in the shower room and tell him to wash. He paces, hunting for weapons and exits with furtive glances. One shoots at his feet and a chip of tile grazes his calf. He goes to the nearest nozzle, steps beneath it and turns the handle.

In the face of the cold water, the exhaustion of faded adrenaline washes away, leaving him clear eyed. One of the men whistles and points his gun at the shower caddy that dangles from the shiny chrome. In it is a fresh, peach-colored bar of soap and a washcloth, neatly folded. Another one of the men strolls up, grabs the handle and turns another quarter turn or so. "Hot water and soap, asshole. Didn't your daddy teach you nothing?

Mechanically, he lathers up his chest, arms, hair, face, then turns his face up into the water to rinse, but when he goes to put back the soap, the first one tells him, "Everywhere," with a leer. Belly, legs, a quick pass at his groin, and again, when he's done rinsing, one of them says, *Every*where and pokes his ass cheek with the barrel of his gun. There's chuckling, and low talking he can't make out as he stares straight ahead and washes his balls and the crack of his ass.

A calm settles over him. He hasn't felt this particular flavor of it in a long time, but that don't mean it ain't familiar. He finishes with brisk wash down his legs, another wave of laughter as he bends down to wash his feet, then the water gets turned off for him. He's tossed briefs and a sleeveless undershirt, both white and with the kind of creases that come from being fresh from the package. He's marched to a sink with a tube of toothpaste and a toothbrush and after another jab, he picks it up and scrubs at his teeth until he's foaming like some dog on borrowed time. 

His hands get zip tied behind his back, a bag tugged over his head, and he's led for a few minutes. He listens closely, tries to keep track of the turns, the distances. He hears the clank and scrape and murmur of an active dining area, the smell of coffee and maybe pancakes. Some kind of meat. Beneath his feet the floor goes from concrete to metal grate to something flat and warm, maybe wood. Whispers behind him, then the clank and creak of a heavy door. "Step high," they say, then a jab in his back shoves him forward and his feet are sinking into a soft rug.

He's forced to his knees and something's clipped to the zip tie, then another clip on the floor, from the brush of hands the anchor point is between his ankles, and whatever's strung between them is cinched short, tugged tight so that he has to sit back on his heels. Bag's tugged off his head to reveal a decent sized room painted dark green with a large window, some bookshelves, a messy desk and a big, tightly made bed. On the walls are a couple motivational posters with mountains and eagles and shit like Teamwork and Loyalty in big letters. He blinks at the light, and finally gets around to looking at Negan.

He's sprawled on a brown leather recliner, wearing a fluffy, red bathrobe that's loosely belted. There's a TV tray beside him and on it, a plate piled with food. A yellow World's Best Dad mug with steam rising from it. When he leans forward to spear a sausage off the plate with a big ass knife, the robe spills open and between his wide-spread thighs, Daryl catches a glimpse of white briefs and not much else besides his boots with their laces undone and their tongues hanging out. Negan dips the link in a little bowl of syrup and watches it drip before biting the tip with a smile. The sweet syrup smell turns Daryl's stomach, then comes a growl of hunger that breaks the silence of the room. 

Negan chuckles and leans back, robe almost completely open now, revealing a hairy chest peppered with scars, some white with age, others puckered and purple. He eyes Daryl as he eats a few more bites, leaning forward again to cut the pancakes, scraping the knife on the plate and making a sound that sets Daryl's teeth on edge. A napkin wipe of his mouth, then he picks up the mug and lifts in Daryl's direction before sipping the steaming coffee. "Best part of waking up," he says as he sets it back on the tray. With the fork, he stabs another sausage and asks, "With or without syrup?" 

Daryl doesn't reply.

"Nah, you gotta try it with." He dips it, then holds the sausage right under Daryl's nose. "Open up, buttercup." Daryl turns his head, and gets a swift nudge in his balls with the toe of Negan's boot. He doubles over as much as his bonds will allow and after a few grunts, he sits back up again. 

Negan slips smoothly out of the chair, squatting in front of him, sausage back in front of Daryl's lips. Then he taps the meat to Daryl's mouth and says, "Boop," leaving a smear of stick syrup. "Aw, c'mon champ, this ain't gonna be the hill you die on. Eat. The. Meat." Daryl bites off a piece and glares up at Negan through his bangs as he chews. With a smirk, Negan says, "Swallow. That's a good boy. You a good boy, *Daryl*?" He uses the fork cut a bite off the stack of pancakes and holds it in front of Daryl's mouth. "Were you ever?" After a beat he smacks Daryl in the side of the head so hard his ear rings. "Eat. And do not make me tell you again." Daryl takes the pancakes and chews, then swallows, all without taking his glare from Negan's fucking face. 

"Need something to wash that down? Course you do." He tilts his head and takes a long look at Daryl through narrowed eyes. "Now you, you strike me as the kind of boy whose daddy liked a little Irish in his morning joe, huh? Yeah? Yeah." He reaches down beside his recliner and picks up a bottle of Jack. Pours a couple glugs in the mug then drains it in a few gulps, Adam's apple bobbing as he lifts the mug toward the ceiling then sets it on the tray with a clang that rattles the silverware.

Daryl eyes the knife longingly. 

Negan pours the Jack into the mug and keeps pouring until it sloshes over the rim, then caps the bottle and drops it onto the carpet with a muffled thud. "Now, this shit ain't the easiest thing to find in this world of ours, so if you waste any, Daddy's gonna be mad. And you know what happens when Daddy gets mad. Yeah you do. So be a good boy, and don't put me in a position where I'm gonna have to get creative with my threats. You know you won't be the one to pay. That smear's gal sure a shit knows you won't be the one to pay. Now me, I like ladies on the thick side, but that skinny senorita of yours has caught many an eye in these parts. You feel me?" When Daryl doesn't respond, he sucks at his teeth and adds, "Yeah. You feel me." 

He takes a straw off the tray and peels off the paper, then bends the top and drops it in the mug. He waves the mug under Daryl's nose and the fumes make his eyes water. "Open," Negan says, and Daryl does as he's told. When the straw slides in, Negan murmurs gently, "Close." Then, "Suck." 

Daryl takes a sip that burns all the way to the pit of his stomach. 

"Keep suckin', there we go. I'll let you know when to stop." 

For a few heartbeats Daryl considers refusing, but Negan's right. This is not the time to push back. So he closes his eyes and drinks, gulp after searing gulp of the stuff, only coughing once. Negan pulls the mug away, waits for it to pass, then the straw's in his mouth again, and Daryl keeps going until the rattling slurp that tells him the mug's done. His eyes water and for a moment it's a fight not to retch. 

"How you think I’m gonna feel if you hurl all over my boots, huh?" Fingers under Daryl's chin, lifting his head. "This time I want an answer." 

"Won' like it," Daryl says hoarsely. 

"He speaks!" Negan says with a wide grin. He sits back, planting his feet wide, and rubs his palms together as he looks Daryl up and down slowly. "Something tells me you're not a man of many words. More an action guy, huh? Me, I'm a bit of both. You gotta know by now that I love the sound of my own voice. But I back up those words." He nods soberly. "That much is sure as shit clear. But you, you're not a talker, and that's okay." He strokes his chin and considers Daryl a little more, then asks, "You wash behind your ears? I told 'em to make sure you were fresh as a daisy. You fresh as a daisy, Daryl?"

He slips off the chair again to crouch in front of Daryl again and leans in to sniff at Daryl's neck. "Mmm, you smell nice," he says, his breath hot on Daryl's cheek. He leans back just enough to get nearly nose to nose with Daryl and whispers, "I appreciate you not pissing yourself." 

With a growl, Daryl swings his head forward hard, aiming break Negan's nose with his forehead but whatever's got him bolted to the floor holds and Negan easily pulls back. He clucks his tongue at Daryl and grins. "Full of spunk. Just like I like 'em. Full. Of. Spunk." He slips back onto the recliner and adjusts his bulge before laying both hands on the arm rests. "You ever been full of spunk, Daryl? Of course you have. Was it Daddy?" He blinks slowly at Daryl. "Nah, Daddy didn't love you enough for that. Daddy barely knew you were alive. Uncle maybe? Neighbor boys? Getting warmer. How 'bout your big brother?" 

Daryl's stock still, he'd swear it. Except for just a little swaying as the booze hits his head, he doesn't move a muscle, but Negan's smile spreads across his face anyway. "Yeah. Played games with you, did he?" He slaps his hand on his thigh and hoots with laughter. "Details don't matter, do they? What matters, is you know how to use that purrrty mouth of yours, don'cha?" Negan rubs at his bulge again, then again, then with a casual shove, he's got the waistband of his briefs down beneath a pair of hairy balls and his hand wrapped loosely around a thick, floppy, dark pink cock. 

It takes everything Daryl has not to flinch. Instead, he snorts and tosses his hair out of his eyes. "That supposed to impress me?"

"If you're not careful," Negan says as he rolls the flesh between his fingers, "You're gonna hurt my feelings."

Daryl yanks hard at his bonds, and when they don't budge, he spits on the floor and glares up at Negan defiantly. "Go on then. Get on with it." 

But Negan's smile just grows. "Here's the thing. The question of whether you spit or swallow has already been settled, so the theatrics are," he gives himself a long, slow tug and lets go. This time, it's less floppy. "Unnecessary." He leans forward and reaches out to give Daryl's cheek a light smack. "Champ. Now." His grip on Daryl's jaw tightens and he drags his thumb back and forth over Daryl's clenched lips. "Sure I could force myself on you in a manner that leaves you shitting blood for a week. I could make you make it easy, but where's the fun in that? I mean, any one of you'd spread your legs in a minute if it meant saving the boy from the same fate." 

Daryl squeezes his eyes shut and breathes hard through his nose, feels a dizziness that's part the booze, part exhaustion and part a sort of drifting away he used to do, like a balloon floating up to the clouds where it's quiet and anything that can touch you is miles below. A sharp smack brings him back to the present. 

"See, that's what I'm talking about. Open your eyes or I'll rip your fucking lids off. That's better. As I was saying, you're a tough guy Daryl. Anything I do to you, anything I make you do, anything I take from you, we both know you'd be a good soldier. Sure I could break your body, but c'mon, where's the fun in that? What's it prove? What's it get other than your snot and tears and blood and shit. And of that? I got plenty." Negan strokes Daryl's lips a few more times, then he pulls the big knife off the tray and waggles it in front of Daryl's face. "You're gonna wanna stay real still for this part." 

Daryl holds his breath and looks up at the ceiling. There's a smooth brush of cool steel at his hip, the sound of ripping cloth, another, a yank, and then a stir of air across his privates as his underwear drops to the floor. 

Negan sets the knife back on the tray then sits back on the chair and resumes stroking his now hard cock. "Now," he continues, "It's fine to be a man of few words, but around here, communication is key. If you've got more than a tenth grade education, I'll eat my fucking hat, and that's fine. I've got other folks for," he drawls, "book learnin'. And not a whole lot of full on retards left at this point, so I'm guessing that's not what I'm dealing with here either." He waves his free hand in Daryl's direction. "Though I think we can both agree slugging me wasn't too smart of you, was it? Anyway, here's how this is gonna go. You listening?" When Daryl doesn't answer, Negan says, low and serious, "Are you listening?"

"Yeah."

"Are you really listening?"

"Yes, I'm listening," Daryl grits out. 

"I'm so pleased. How it's gonna go is like this. You're gonna sit there, and by the way, A plus job at that so far. I'm gonna sit here. And you, baby boy, are gonna tell me a story. Easy peasy Japanesey, right?" After a beat he smirks. "Too soon? I kid. No, you're going to use your words and if I think you did a good job, you live. But if think you don't do a good job, you live and you get to pick which one of the lovely young ladies in your group gets her left tit chopped off. Have I been in any way unclear?"

"I get it."

"Grrrreat." He shimmies his underwear off, grabs the bottle off the floor and pours the remainder in the mug, then settles back elaborately into the chair, stretching one long leg out on the floor to Daryl's right, slinging the other over the arm of the chair so his boot dangles and his hairy junk is on full display. After a pull on the mug, he sets it down and rests both hands on the tops of his thighs, tapping his fingers and squinting at Daryl. With a suck at his teeth, he holds up a finger and says, "I got it! You ready?"

"Yes."

"Now, I could ask how you all met, or how you came to be at your adorable little compound, or your first kill, and we've got time for all that. But what I wanna hear today is the story of the first time you sucked off your fearless leader, Rick Grimes."

All Daryl can do for a moment is stare at him in confusion. 

Negan snorts and brings his legs together, nearly, both boots on the floor nearly between Daryl's knees. He kicks off one boot, then the other, and lets his knees splay more casually as he runs his fist up and down the length of his erection. "Now if the next words out of your mouth are something like 'What?' or 'I never' or 'I ain't no fag' or 'Fuck you' or anything other than the opening lines of the ballad of how you got your mouth around boss man's prick, well, you know how I feel about following through on promises, dontcha?" He flicks his left nipple and lifts his eyebrows. "Nod if we're on the same page."

Daryl nods. 

"Good, let's start with the when and the where. I'll let you take a moment." 

Daryl swallows hard and stares at the floor as he tries to gather his thoughts. By now, his head is swimming with the booze, and the heat in his gut has long since spread to his limbs. Sucking off Rick, Jesus Christ, why the fuck...he scoffs out loud and immediately braces himself for the punishment, but when he looks up, Negan is just tugging away and watching him patiently. Does he really think...or is he just fucking with Daryl's head. Well, obviously that's part, but as he shakes his head to clear it, a few reasons for this pop into his skull. 

He pushes them away, though. A sick fuck like this, the more you try and figure his reasons, the more you run in circles like some dog getting rocks thrown at it. Some people just like throwing rocks at dogs. Some shit, you just gotta get through. So. If he *was* to suck Rick off, when and where? Has he thought about it? Like that fucking matters at that point. 

What matters is doing a good job, whatever the fuck that means. Even money this monster chops something off no matter what Daryl says. Some people just wanna hurt you, and pretending you got some say in it is just part of the game. And this asshole? Likes games. This fucker thinks this story's gonna give him a look inside Daryl, or inside Rick, or their group, and maybe it will. But the way he takes the story'll tell Daryl something about him too, and any scrap of intel could help them down the line when the time comes to gut the fucker. 

So. Daryl takes a deep breath and then mutters, "Was last year. Springtime I guess."

"Romantic. Continue. And speak the fuck up."

In a louder voice, Daryl continues. "It was a supply run. Before Alexandria."

"Just the two of you?"

Daryl rolls his shoulders and tilts his head to the side, trying to work out a cramp. "Naw. Bob too."

"Which one is he?"

"He's dead."

"How?"

"How you think? Walker got him a few months later. Anyway, three of us found a truck full've canned goods."

"What kind?" 

"All sorts." He throws in a rueful chuckle for effect. "Lotta dog food, it turned out." 

That makes Negan laugh hard enough to stop jacking for a minute. "Dog food?"

"You ain't never been hungry since shit went down?"

"Touché. Continue."

"So Bob could fucking run. Like one of them Africans who wins all the marathons. Truck was busted, so we sent him back to camp. We're a few days out, walkin', but the way that boy moved, he'd get back to 'em by that night, plan was to get us the car by the next morning. Load up and head back, you know the drill."

Negan nods for him to go on. 

"Anyway, so then it's just us. And we're going through it tryin' to find somethin' that ain't Alpo." 

"Like?"

"I don't know. Beans, lotta them." He thinks back to the times they found a score that had everyone celebrating. "There was a couple of cases of Dinty Moore."

"Oh ho, Score!"

"It was them with the pull tops, so we dig in. We got time to kill after that, so we're scoping out the rest of the area and that's when the herd hits."

"Herd?" 

"Hundreds of 'em in a clump. We hop in the cab to wait it out, but it goes on for fucking ever. Then one of 'em sets off a car alarm."

"Well, shit." Negan lets go of his dick and strokes his chin. "That ain't good."

"Yeah. So--"

"So how long you been together at this point?"

"Together?" 

"Playing dumb isn't in your best interest right now."

Daryl considers making something up to throw him off, but can't think of a good reason. His thoughts are slow anyway, so he figures keep the lies for something important and says, "Since nearly the start of all this shit."

"Long ass time to be someone's bitch."

"I ain't his bitch. I ain't anybody's bitch."

"What are you then? To him."

His brother, he thinks, but that he's keeping to himself. "Friend. We got each other's backs. Keep each other alive."

"Family."

"I guess."

"Fuck buddies?"

"We ain't fuck buddies," Daryl spits out, aware his speech is slurring.

"Isn't that what you call a couple of guys who suck each other off? Or is it more of a boyfriends thing?"

"We don't suck each other off."

"So it's just you sucking him. You wouldn't call that being his bitch?"

"Man, like people got time to name shit these days." He scoffs. 

Negan smiles warmly. "Touché. Continue."

"Anyway, one thing leads to another, I blow 'em, the end."

"Try again. Cab of the truck, herd, car alarm."

"Right," Daryl says, trying to get back into the imagined scenario. "We're gonna be there a while, so we dig around, and the glove compartment's locked, but we bust it open. Inside there's a revolver, couple boxes of ammo, and..." he searches his memory, which supplies him with Beth's sweet face, now of all moments. He shuts his eyes and allows it to wash over him. "And a bottle of peach schnapps."

"Really."

Daryl doesn't open his eyes, but he can tell by the shift in Negan's voice and the quiet shuffle of skin on skin that he's started up again, so he pushes on, eyes still closed. Easier to make shit up if he's not staring at this monster's fucking ball sack. "Yeah. Big one. Anyway, we ain't going nowhere for a while, so we start drinking. And it's not like we ever sit around telling stories like a bunch of women. He ain't like that. I ain't like that. I don't even know how it started, but we start talking about before. Dumb shit we did when we were kids, dogs we had, girls we knew."

The dogs part is true. He remembers one night at Hershel's farm when everyone was talking about their favorite dogs, or cats, and he'd kept his mouth shut because the only dog he ever gave a shit about Meryl used for target practices one Saturday night when he was tweaking.

"Anyway, he starts going on about this cheerleader he knew. Saving herself, so she wouldn't fuck him, but she had a mouth that wouldn't quit." That story was Abraham's, one he told after too much wine at one of the dinner parties Carol forced him to go to. "Would not shut up about it. He's buzzed, I'm buzzed." Daryl can imagine the moment, but his mind doesn't want to give him what's next. 

"You're hard."

"Course I was."

"You are," Negan says in a low rumble.

It's not until that moment that Daryl realizes he is, and a hot flush of anger and humiliation washes over him, along with a bracing onslaught of memories, real memories, from the night before. It's enough to make bile rise in his throat, but bodies are fucking stupid and his is no exception, and his hard on stays right where it is. He swallows down the bile and clears his throat.

"Go on."

"Yeah," he says hoarsely, cramming all that down because that moment's done with and this one's the one he's got to get through by getting through this bullshit story. "So I'm hard and he's hard, and the next thing I know, he's got it out and he keeps talking. So I'm like why not, get mine out, and I don't know."

After a few moments, Negan whispers, "You don't know what?"

"I don't know why I did it."

"Why you did what?"

"I don't know why I put my mouth on him." He doesn't know why he would. He knows that he would, but he doesn't know what would possess him, what would possess Rick to let him. He knows how every other dick that's been in his mouth got there, too little to stop it, or too stoned, or wanted drugs too bad. Or his dad drank away rent one month too many and the landlord said it was that or all of them get the fuck out in the middle of January, including the girl his brother was fucking and her son who had nowhere else to go. Mostly drugs though. 

"Don't you?"

Daryl shakes his head and sways because of the way the room's spinning. He doesn't want to open his eyes. He doesn't want to leave the imagined memory of peach schnapps or the imaginary truck cab, sweet with its scent, Rick's heavy breathing louder than the sea of moans outside. If Lucille came down on his skull at this moment and he never had to look any of them in the eye again (Maggie, Jesus Christ, fucking Maggie) it wouldn't be a blessing but at least it would be an ending. At least it would be done. 

Some kind of noise rips its way out of his throat, and he realizes from a distance that his face is wet with tears. Then comes Negan's voice from what seems like far above. "You put your mouth on him because you want Daddy to love you." 

With a start, Daryl opens his eyes. The cab, the schnapps, the night before, all of it dropping away as he slams back into the present. "No," he says calmly, looking up. Negan's standing over him now, working his cock with purpose. 

"No? Then why?" He asks breathlessly. His eyes are bright and eager and cruel in a way that's not new to Daryl at all. It's just a matter of degree. 

He didn't--he corrects himself--he wouldn't do that to earn Rick's love. He's no fool. He knows he's had that for a while. As much as two men as broken as them in a world as broken as this can love each other he knows that they do. In their own way. As brothers. As something more, better, not dirtied by stupid, useless shit like rutting and jizz and the thirst for touch. Daryl can shut that shit down and block that shit out, and that's what makes him strong. If he ever was to put his mouth on Rick, it wouldn't be about love. It wouldn't be about dumb shit like what he wanted. It would be simpler than that. It would be because

"He deserved to feel something good for a change." He glares up at Negan, defiantly.

Negan stares at him for a moment, then he throws his head back and laughs, hard and wheezing. "Oh," he says when he finally catches his breath. "Oh that," he says, fist flying over his dick now, "That's a good one. That's fucking price...less." He grunts, and his hand stops a second before he shoots, splash after hot, thick splash, right in Daryl's face. 

He doesn't give Negan the pleasure of shrinking from it, just closes his eyes and waits for it to finish. He ignores it the way he ignores the splash of blood and guts, the sting of insects and slaps upside the head for being a dumb little brat, the heat and the cold and the hunger that have been his as long as he can remember. He ignores it and breathes and waits for Negan's fit of laughter to subside. 

But before it does, Negan's hand's smearing across his face and before Daryl can suck in a startled breath, it's gently but firmly working Daryl's flagging erection back to life. "Attaboy," comes the voice, hot against his ear. "That's it." His beard prickles against the side of Daryl's face and his free hand snakes around behind him, not to where he expects, but undoing whatever's got his wrists tethered to the floor. 

In the absence of that anchor, Daryl pitches forward, slick face landing on the warm bulk of Negan's shoulder. He leans heavily, and doesn't fight, barely registers the screaming protest of his shoulders and legs as Negan turns him, cradling him with one arm, while his other hand keeps up the rhythm. 

The pleasure of his touch doesn't reach Daryl any more than the pain does, not really. It's just something else that washes over his body and soon, his body does what bodies do. Bodies shit and breathe and bleed and sometimes they come, and that's what his is doing right now, in the arms of a monster. Just a matter of degree. 

"Le petit mort," Negan murmurs as the shaking subsides. "Little death. Dumb fucking name for something that makes you feel so alive. C'mon." He manhandles Daryl to his feet, lifting him easily.

It takes a couple stumbling tries, but he manages to find his footing. His heart still pounds and the room spins, but he'll be damned if lets himself do anything but stand up straight and look Negan in the eye. 

"Jesus, lighten up," Negan says with an easy grin. "Here you go." With a knife, he cuts the zip tie, freeing Daryl to rub at his wrists and stand there with all the dignity of someone with nothing left to lose. Though, he thinks with a dark laugh he can't quite suppress, that's another lie right there. But lying to himself is the least he'll do to survive this and get back to his family and one day watch this fucker's very last breath.

The knife's right there on the floor when Negan turns his back on Daryl to rustle through one of his drawers. Even through the fuzz in his head, Daryl recognizes it as just as much of a display of dominance as the jizz all over his face. He guesses all this is meant to shock him, the good cop/bad cop, smack him with one hand and diddle him with the other bullshit. Same as watching his friends die brutally is meant to, and he's survived that for a long time now. But he's survived the mind fucks for as long as he can remember. The men who taught him how to do that weren't this smart, and they weren't quite this mean, even though they had their moments. And even though they were supposed to love him. 

They didn't though. He knew that ever since he could remember too. And as soon as he got his shit together, he didn't love them either. He was bound to them, but that wasn't love or loyalty. That was sickness. Now, the whole world is sick. But some, like the fucker currently holding out a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt to Daryl, are rotted inside worse than any Walker. 

And some, like Rick, aren't just stronger at the broken places, they make the people around them better. Make lost causes like Daryl *want* to be better. Make him fucking hope, of all things. And ain't nothing more dangerous than hope, he thinks as he takes the clothes and dresses, eyes cast down, docile as lamb, just like Negan expects. 

Fucking Negan. Thinks he's dangerous. Thinks because he turned a couple of Daryl's friends into meat he's bad? Thinks getting all flashy about it and making a few speeches is gonna break them? He's watched friends turn into red pulp for years now. He's watched bad men lead weak ones and he's seen evil ones get off on the shit their strength allows in this new world. Negan's not new. And for all the shit he did last night, and all the shit he did just now, and whatever shit he's gonna do between this moment and the one that gets Daryl back where he belongs, Negan's not half as dangerous as Rick Grimes. 

Even if Negan gets a fucking clue and kills Rick, he's still not as dangerous, not as long as Daryl's drawing breath. Daryl'd laugh in anyone's face if they said it, but that doesn't make any less true: Rick infected him with hope. Rick and Beth and Carol and even when they lose it for a while, even when he loses them forever, that shit they gave him is still inside. Lurking. Ready come out at the worst time. Like fucking herpes. 

Negan pulls a few baby wipes from a tub and holds them out. "Clean yourself up for Christ’s sake." Daryl wipes at his face and drops them the wastebasket by the desk, then stands there quietly, obediently, hands at his side. Negan pulls on a pair of jeans and wedges his feet back into his boots, then tugs a long-sleeved tee on before shrugging on the black leather jacket that's been over the desk chair this whole time. "I got shit to accomplish and you need some shut eye if you're going to be of any use to me." 

When Daryl doesn't respond, Negan puts a finger under his chin and lifts his head until Daryl’s forced to look him in the eye. With a soft smile, Negan says, "You did good, kiddo. A for effort with that story, everyone gets to keep their tits another day. 'Course, you and I both know it was total bullshit. But I like your style. I do." He claps Daryl on the shoulder and leads him to the door. "I got a good feeling about you and I cannot wait to see what else I can get out of that purty mouth of yours. Or in it. We'll see where the day takes us. So what do you say we do this again tomorrow? You up for some more story time?"

The grip on Daryl’s shoulder tightens, as if the command isn’t clear. As if he’s in danger of not getting the fact that Negan’s questions are questions in name only. As if he thinks Daryl’s stupid, and Daryl’s smart enough to know Negan realizes he’s not as dumb as he looks. But Daryl’s also smart enough to know that what gets Negan off isn’t the violence. Hell, in this world of theirs, ain’t a man alive that can’t get all the violence he wants. 

No, what clearly gets Negan off is the mind games, and getting folks to demonstrate they know he’s the one running the show with just enough fight to make it interesting. And if Daryl’s gonna stay alive, stay close, and get back to the ones he loves, he can’t just be useful. He’s gotta be interesting. So he looks up at Negan through his bangs, says quietly, “Yes, Daddy,” and waits for that wide, white smile.


End file.
